


The Genesis Day

by B_Radley



Series: The Laughing Beskad [10]
Category: Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Beginnings, Brother and Sisters All, Love, Mandalorian world-building, Multi, Superstition, beliefs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 15:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12707832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: On a significant day in Mandalorian culture, a possible beginning, middle, or ending.





	The Genesis Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merfilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merfilly/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Wild Harp Slung](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9353351) by [B_Radley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley). 



> From a prompt by Merfilly

Gregor watches as J’ohlana Wren kisses the Corellian. Croft— _no. I have to call him King, now. Croft is dead to the universe_ —turns away. The ex-Commando, once known by a number, smiles at his ex-General’s reluctance to part.

The smile morphs into a grin as _Lana’ika_ slaps him on the ass. King turns his head. The look that he gives the young woman is powerful.

He notices that the look on Wren’s face is just as powerful. Gregor sighs. _You knew it was only a matter of time._

He shakes his head and walks over to one of his partners. _The first one_. He doesn’t want to interrupt the moment. The moment of whatever it is on her face. An unfamiliar look to him that is leavened in no small way by one that cuts through his heart.

_Confusion._

“Hey,” he says, breaking the moment. She turns to him, her usual look of snark and love and mischief, as well as no small bit of calculation, that is her essence, flowing to her features. He tries not to laugh as he sees the confusion remaining.

“If you can stop looking longingly at his ass long enough, I have some news. Got a lead on what we’re here for.”

“Oh, shut up, Gregor. I think I’ve seen you looking at it as well.”

“Yeah, but I have also spent a good deal of time looking at yours, too. Haven’t acted on either yet, though.”

He decides to push the envelope, to focus her.

_Although I appreciate the fact that the pain that seems to be always on their faces has lessened somewhat._

“Of course, the screaming thigh sweats didn’t manifest themselves until he used uh, certain hoodoos. We had a name for those back back in the GAR,” he says.

He is treated to a flush on her bronze features. “Asshole,” she mutters.

“Jedi-jumper,” he whispers, careful not to say the word too loud. Her eyes flash, then ease with the laughter that is always present in some way in those dark eyes. He prepares as she opens her mouth.

“Reject.”

“Twit.”

“Alpha-plank.”

 _Oh, it is on, my girl,_ he thinks.

It isn’t long before they run out of names to call each other. They look around, realize that they might want to get out of the streets, even though his face is concealed.

A face of millions at one time. A face that is the reason that they are here on this haven of information.

Standing here, unarmed because of this place’s laws.

No matter. Not one of the three of them is any less dangerous for not having obvious weapons on display.

He sees her look down. “You okay, sweetie?” he asks.

“Yeah, _Gregor’ika_ ,” she says. “Are you okay with this? I would never want to hurt you.” She stops as he places his finger over her lips.

“Hush, J’ohlana Wren. I don’t begrudge either of you what happiness you can find in this shithole of a universe.” His eyes grow hooded. “While I can appreciate you both as works of art, I really haven’t had much interest in that in the last year or so.”

 _Since our worlds died. Since my brothers seem to have been discarded,_ he doesn’t add.

He grins. “Besides. Neither of you are my type.”

She laughs and reaches over to kiss him. His eyes widen as a tiny bit of tongue pushes past his lips. “Just a reminder from someone not your type of what you might be missing.” The mischievous gleam in her eyes grows. “So what is your type?”

“Tall, dark, and identical.” he says, his own mischievous look growing.

J’ohlana looks down. Without hesitation, he lifts her chin. “Don’t fash, girl. That is what we are here for. Although,” he says with a grin. “not because I am looking to get laid or to find my soul mate.”

Worry creases her forehead above those expressive eyes. “Please be careful with your meeting, love,” she says. “This is Bothuwai Proper. Where a little bit of information can get you an imaginary vibroshiv in your ribs.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” he replies. “I am careful.” His own dark gaze drills her. “You be careful, as well with your little holocall. Especially since today is the thirteenth.”

He smiles as she makes a distinctive sign on her forehead, and then his, for good measure. “I will. Just hope King doesn’t start anything.”

His eyeroll is almost tangible. “Great. Something else we have to worry about.”

As the two turn from each other, a watcher’s eyes grow dark with his own memories. He looks down at the little girl, playing a game on her datapad. His expression grows rueful as he realizes his young daughter is playing sabacc against the computer. He grins sheepishly as he rises to make his meeting.

 _Somebody never tell her Mother,_ he thinks to himself, quashing the pain.

_At least she is winning._

~=~=~=~=~=

Gregor turns away and begins to walk away to his meeting. His eyes track left and right, keeping an eye out on this unpredictable world. His eyes narrow as a scan droid pays special attention to him.

_Good thing you don’t have any weapons on you. Or any type of a doo-dad that tells nosy little scandroids that you only have a second datapad on you._

In a different pocket—one that is reachable by his strong hand.

He finds himself in the courtyard of a local spaceport cluster. He sees the small wine garden that bears the code for his contact.

He shakes his head. The Aurabesh number thirteen. He automatically checks for second exits.

Obviously his contact knows his business. He smiles as he sees an actual third way out.

He walks into the establishment, which has apparently seen better days, and services a different clientele than it originally had.

He sees the table. A large hooded figure sits there, along with a tiny young girl. His heart squeezes as he sees the child’s features.

Features close to, but not exactly his own. Features softened by the look of love behind the skeptical look that she gives him.

A look contained in two differently hued eyes—one dark honey-amber and one royal blue.

He slows as the large figure rises. He feels his eyes tear, tries to shake them away. He goes to the figure, but stops himself. He sees the figure motion in another direction.

Without thought, Gregor follows both figures into a private room. As if in a fog, he sees the little girl hold her datapad and a sensor up, scanning the room. She nods at the giant.

One microsecond after the nod, the giant removes his hood.

A microsecond after that, Gregor is in the arms of a brother.

The little girl’s eyes, in spite of their skepticism, warm, and allow tears to spill on her cheeks.

~=~=~=~=~=

J’ohlana Wren clicks her comm off in the cockpit of the old Republic shuttle. As soon as it is safely off, she removes her _buy’ce_. Her eyes are thoughtful as she thinks on what the contact had told her.

“I think that the time is ripe to help our _Vode_ ,” the hooded figure had said. “I think that you are the right people to do it. Especially with at least one of your members.”

Meaning Gregor. One of those _Vode._

J’ohlana sighs. She had not gone into detail about the third of their members. Merely that he was a mercenary who had proven himself useful.

She smirks. _Well, that was totally true_. In more ways than one. She allows her skin to grow warm at the thought.

J’ohlana hears the ramp start to lower. She looks at the security board, sees that a security code is being used. She smiles and punches the button to lower the pilot’s chair.

A place somewhat below her stomach chooses to flip at that particular moment. She looks up at the Corellian. He is looking at her with that crooked, warm grin. She gives him her best disdainful look.

A look belying the fact that she is soon going to be straddling him in the small bunk in the main hold, their skin warm on each other.

“So,” he says. “Happy Name-day.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but is secretly pleased that he found out. “Yeah, well. If a goddamned waiter starts singing to me, bud, I will cut you long, deep, and continuously.”

His grin expands. “Finally. A woman after my own heart.”

He walks over to her and reaches down and kisses her. She allows his tongue to intrude. She rolls her eyes again, as she tastes the whisky on his breath.

She automatically looks down. She pulls his hand up, runs her thumb over the skinned knuckles.

“Well, did anyone come after you?” she asks darkly.

“Nope. Didn’t leave anyone standing. Plus, we are a few thousand richer.”

She kisses him again, then makes a distinctive sign with her thumb on her forehead, then his.

He raises his eyebrows.

“Today is the thirteenth.”

He looks down. “Yeah. I know. On Corellia that number is unlucky. Same on Coruscant and Alderaan.”

She smiles softly. “Not necessarily on Mandalore,” she says. “It is the Genesis Day. Could be good for any endeavor or journey today. You just have to make your own luck. Only thing is, it could be the genesis of the beginning, the middle, or the end. Just don’t know which.”

He nods, his face growing serious. “Also depends on who your guides are. Made contact with Fulcrum,” she says. “They will help us with information. Looks like the _Vode An_ movement is in business.”

“Come on. Gregor won’t be back for awhile. Let’s get naked. Celebrate my name day.”

As they lie in each other’s arms, while trying to bring their breathing under control, there is a nagging thought in J’oh’s mind, as she wonders what is so familiar about Fulcrum. The figure’s face, head, and voice had been totally masked and unreadable.

_Still._

~=~=~=~=~=

Ahsoka Tano shakes her head as she thinks of her new endeavor. One that her nominal boss in her day job would not necessarily approve of. Not because of its aims, but because Bail Organa deals in the Big Picture in the galaxy.

She takes a sip of Tevraki whisky and places her cards down.

Her opponent’s blue skin flushes as her bronze eyes light on the cards. Lassa Rhayme sighs as she stands and removes her shirt.

~=~=~=~=~=

Gregor looks down at the two figures in the bunk. He pulls the blanket at the foot of the bed over them. Not for any modesty, but for warmth. He has seen both of them in various stages of undress while training.

His eyes soften as he thinks of Drop, the huge clone of that class known as the Null-ARCS, who had served with him and Croft in the Commandos, and later the original 332nd. He had told Drop that their General had survived Order 66.

Drop had begged him not to tell Croft he was alive.

“I have something I have to do, Gregor,” Drop had said. “I don’t want him to think he has to help me. It is mine and this little girl’s job alone.”

Nothing that Gregor had said would make him relent. His eyes tear as he remembers how the little girl had reached up and hugged him to her, kissing him on his cheek.

He starts as he realizes that _Lana’ika_ looks up at him. He grins. Or _J’oh_ , as King calls her.

_We all have so many goddamned names._

“We good, _Gregor’ika?_ ” she whispers, careful not to wake King.

He smiles and nods. “Yep. Think I have the right guide for us, love,” he says. He reaches down and uses his thumb to inscribe that arcane symbol from her world on her forehead and on that of the man lying asleep next to her. A man whose mother’s world is shared among the three of them.

He closes his eyes as he thinks of this guide for the Genesis Day—the Thirteenth.

A man once known by a classification and and a number. A number subjugated by the name that he had claimed from a challenge by this sleeping young man.

_Drop._

A name he bore with pride as his earned name.

Temporarily replaced by another—a _nom de guerre,_ as some fancy-pants might call it.

A name taken from this young Jedi’s father’s world. A world of gamblers, engineers, and fighters.

Niall Tredecima. That world’s language for his original class and number.

_Null-13._

~=~=~=~=~=

The old man touches the worn armor. His hand rests on the oldest of the two handprints on the breastplate, as memories from three decades ago sift through his mind. He smiles in spite of his pain.

The smile grows as he feels skin slightly cooler than his own touch his back, as a pair of strong arms circles his middle.

He allows the breath he is holding to release as he looks down at the forearms resting against him. For about the millionth time in life, he marvels at the markings that have grown to the bearer’s shoulder. He smiles at the slight golden glow given off by the skin, visible when he looks at it from a certain angle.

He feels the familiar double twitch on his skin.

His heart clinches as he thinks of the date and the significance that the forger of this armor had taught him from her and his mother’s culture.

The thirteenth—the Genesis Day. A genesis of the beginning, the middle, or the end of a journey or an endeavor.

Depending on how you make your luck. He feels a smile against his back as he makes the sign that he had been taught on his forehead.

He looks down with tears in his eyes as he sees another hand, a bronze one that is forever young, place itself on the forearm. A hand that also appears translucent to him—not like the ones encircling him.

He knows it is there, in some form, nonetheless.

He thinks of the other part of the lesson of the Thirteen. Its location in the journey or endeavor is not just dependent on self-made luck.

But of who you choose as your guide on the journey.

_The middle, then. Or the beginning of another._


End file.
